• Bodhisattvacharyavatara
    • Introduction
    • Chapter 1
    • Chapter 2
    • Chapter 3
    • Chapter 4
    • Chapter 5
    • Chapter 6
    • Chapter 7
    • Chapter 8
    • Chapter 9
    • Chapter 10
  • collected works
    • 25th August 1981 – count Up
    • askance From Hell
    • Batman
    • The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford
    • Bob 1995-2012
    • Edward Hopper: Poems at an Exhibition
    • David Bowie Movements in Suite Major
    • Eglinton Hill
    • FLOORBOARDS
    • Granada
    • in and out / the Avebury stones / can’t seem to get / a signal …
    • Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters]
    • Miller’s Batman
    • mum
    • nan
    • Portsmouth – Southsea
    • Spring Warwick breezes / over Bacharach fieldwork and boroughs with / the occasional shift and chirp of David / in the pastel-long morning of the sixties
    • through the crash
  • index
    • #A-E see!
    • F–K, wha’ th’
    • L-P 33 1/3 rpm
    • Q-T pie
    • U-Z together forever
  • me
  • others
    • William Carlos Williams
  • poemics
  • poeviews
  • teaching matters
  • wormholes

mlewisredford

~ may the Supreme and Precious Jewel Bodhichitta take birth where it has not yet done so …

mlewisredford

Tag Archives: solitude

‘streetsigns …’

23 Friday Nov 2018

Posted by m lewis redford in announcements, poeviews

≈ 7 Comments

Tags

1970, 2018, 6*, alley, Batman, buildings, cape, direction, east, height, moon, north, silhouette, solitude, south, space, story, streetsigns, wings

                streetsigns
                point north south east
                in silhouette

                buildings
                rise in solitary storey,
                the wings

                of the Batman
                unfurl under the
                moon and flutter

                suggesting
                all manner of alleyway
                between

 

unfurled from Batman #225, September, 1970; Denny O’Neill, Irv Novick

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

Batman & buildings wormhole: raised brow
moon wormhole: ‘… plane is upright …’
silhouette wormhole: ‘a blacknight fitted perfectly …’
space wormhole: to let be

 

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A Solitude by Denise Levertov

26 Sunday Aug 2018

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

1961, 7*, air, anxiety, being, blindness, breeze, children, Denise Levertov, doors, exit, face, hands, image, journey, joy, light, movement, nowhere, passing, people, presence, quiet, right, seeing, shame, smile, solitude, sound, speech, stairs, staring, station, stranger, streets, sunlight, thought, train, water, way, world

                                A Solitude

                A blind man. I can stare at him
                ashamed, shameless. Or does he know it?
                No, he is in a great solitude.

                O, strange joy,
                to gaze my fill at a stranger’s face.
                No, my thirst is greater than before.

                In this world he is speaking
                almost aloud. His lips move.
                Anxiety plays about them. And now joy

                of some sort trembles into a smile.
                A breeze I can’t feel
                crosses that face as if it crossed water.

                The train moves uptown, pulls in and
                pulls out of the local stops. Within its loud
                jarring movement a quiet,

                the quiet of people not speaking,
                some of them eyeing the blind man,
                only a moment though, not thirsty like me,

                and within that quiet his
                different quiet, not quiet at all, a tumult
                of images, but what are his images,

                he is blind? He doesn’t care
                that he looks strange, showing
                his thoughts on his face like designs of light

                flickering on water, for hedoesn’t know
                what look is.
                I see he has never seen.

                And now he rises, he stands at the door ready,
                knowing his station is next. Was he counting?
                No, that was not his need.

                When he gets out I get out.
                ‘Can I help you towards the exit?’
                ‘Oh, alright.’ An indifference.

                But instantly, even as he speaks,
                even as I hear indifference, his hand
                goes out, waiting for me to take it,

                and now we hold hands like children.
                His hand is warm and not sweaty,
                the grip firm, it feels good.

                And when we have passed through the turnstile,
                he going first, his hand at once
                waits for mine again.

                ‘Here are the steps. And here we turn
                to the right. More stairs now.’ We go
                up into sunlight. He feels that,

                the soft air. ‘A nice day,
                isn’t it?’ says the blind man. Solitude
                walks with me, walks

                beside me, he is not with me, he continues
                his thoughts alone. But his hand and mine
                know one another,

                it’s as if my hand were gone forth
                on its own journey. I see him
                across the street, the blind man,

                and now he says he can find his way. He knows
                where he is going, it is nowhere, it is filled
                with presences. He says, I am.

 

how to be in another’s head about being in another’s head: this is a wonderful example of Whalen’s ‘graph of the mind’ – the reach and score of effervent; there is a wonderful clarity and excise about these words such that the encounter is ours as much as just reported; thank you Denise Levertov, as she touches her throat lightly to feel the vibrations as she listens

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

air wormhole: THE DESOLATE FIELD by William Carlos Williams
anxiety wormhole: anxiety
being & water wormhole: `whappn’d!
breeze & hands wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – old George
doors wormhole: letting them go
light wormhole: I don’t need to go out / onto the balcony to see behind me / to know what’s going on
passing wormhole: SPRING STRAINS by William Carlos Williams
people wormhole: tram
quiet wormhole: new blue porsche
seeing wormhole: TO A SOLITARY DISCIPLE by William Carlos Williams
smile wormhole: SUMMER SONG by William Carlos Williams
streets wormhole: PASTORAL by William Carlos Williams
thought wormhole: presence
train wormhole: all the low clouds keeping pace / through the train window, / always arriving, whether fast or / slow, but never actually moving
world wormhole: scintillating to mind’s content

 

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Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – gull circling out at sea

04 Thursday Aug 2016

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

2016, 5*, air, beauty, beech, blue, branches, detachment, eyes, finches, gaze, leaf, meadow, morning, mouse, seagull, sky, solitude, South Downs, walking

                           when I first walked the
                           slippery grass of the Downs
                           I remained at a distance
                           not wishing to intrude

                           during those mornings
                           when each leaf is etched
                           against the motionless air
                           of such blue that his eyes

                           ached to the far edge of
                           the meadow, the furthest
                           he had ever been by himself –
                           new lands of stubble and

                           bale; a cloud of finches
                           rose from the ground at the
                           touch of his material gaze:
                           beauty enriched by solitude;

                           along the headland he saw
                           a tiny mouse disappear as he
                           looked for it, then he rolled
                           on his back, looked through

                           the branches of a beech tree
                           to the depth above, tracing
                           the boughs with his fingers,
                           touch of urgency and echo –

                           gull circling out at sea

 

* that switch of pronouns in stanza two is definitely (sic)
read the collected work as it is published: here
this is an appliquiary to: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J Redford – Simon Upon The Downs

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

air & beauty & blue & branches & eyes & morning & seagull & sky & walking wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J Redford – Simon Upon The Downs

 

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The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J Redford – Simon Upon The Downs

04 Thursday Aug 2016

Posted by m lewis redford in announcements

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

'scape, 1967, air, autumn, beauty, beech, blue, branches, breeze, brown, butterfly, child, clouds, countryside, cows, echo, eyes, field, finches, friends, green, hedge, hill, horizon, lark, leaf, leaves, life, meadow, Michael J Redford, morning, mouse, October, orange, parents, red, sea, seagull, sky, solitude, South Downs, space, sun, the Boats of Vallisneria, thought, trees, village, walking, white, wind, windows, yellow

While staying with some friends at their South Downs home one autumn, I espied their six year old son Simon making off across the meadow at the foot of the hill.   Having been asked to keep an eye on their offspring while they went into town, I took up my walking stick and opened the back door.   As I stepped into the sun, I recalled those beautiful hours many years ago when I first walked the slippery grass of the Downs alone and first became aware of their warmth and their beauty.   For this reason I remained at a discreet distance and kept well out of sight, not wishing to intrude upon the boy’s apparent solitude.   I relived those distant moments with this young child, wondering if his thoughts were parallel with mine.

It was a mid October morning, one of those rare mornings when each distant leaf and twig is etched with startling clarity against the pure motionless air.   A faint haze of cloud occupied the northern sky, yet immediately above, the heavens were of such a blue that, even as he gazed, young Simon’s eyes ached at the brilliance of it.

The hedgerows were beginning to thin a little so that he could just make out the faded stubble beyond.   Haw berries were in profusion and were difficult to distinguish from the leaves, many of which had turned a deep russet brown.   He climbed to the brow of the hill, crossed to the stile in the far corner of the meadow and paused.   This was the furthest he had ever been by himself.   He knew this meadow fairly well for he could see it from his bedroom window.   This is where the big brown cows file slowly by in the drowsy summer afternoons and where, if you are lucky, you can see the rabbits scurrying about in the hollow down by the thicket.

He turned and peered over the stile into a new land, a land of sharp prickly stubble and straw bales stacked in towers across the field like an army marching down upon the red roofed village below.   A cloud of finches rose from the ground, as if the boy’s sweeping gaze was of material substance, touching the birds and startling them from their gleaning.   The land sloped gently away to the village and there levelled out to the broad patchwork weald cradled within the gentle curve of the downs upon which he stood.

Never had the young boy seen such a view, its beauty being enriched by his apparent solitude.   Here, high upon the downs, he was a giant surveying his kingdom and strode the browning fields to the horizon counting them as he went.   He came to love the scene dearly as the years went by, often returning later in life to relax in the spaciousness of it; to release his mind, his very soul, to soar high above, around and within and become part of this spacious beauty.

He clambered over the stile and made his way along the headland.   He liked walking upon stubble because it crackled and popped beneath his feet and trapped air burst forth from the hollow stems.   The day seemed a little warmer now and somewhere high above, a lark sprinkled the field with song.   Then a rustling in the hedgerow close by brought Simon’s gaze to rest upon the tiniest mouse he had ever seen.   It was the little creature’s white waistcoat that gave him away, for his yellow-orange jacket blended so with the coloured leaves about him, yet, even as he looked, the twinkling eyes and quivering nose disappeared.   He dropped to his knees and squinted between the leaves.   One leaf in particular caught his eye.   It was noticeable by the fact that one side of the central rib was of a deep chocolate brown colour while the other side remained green, and on the underside of the brown half each tiny artery and vein was etched clearly in red.   Plucking the leaf, the boy rolled over onto his back and looked up through the overhang of the hedge and on up through the branches of a great beech tree to the sky beyond.

At the zenith the azure had deepened and was of great and wonderful contrast to the coloured leaves about him.   He was conscious of the great depth above him yet lifted his arms to touch it, his fingers tracing the graceful boughs above.   And there, framed within his outstretched arms, within that riot of dazzling colour, he became aware of life, all life, from the very earth upon which he lay to the cosmic depths his fingertips caressed.   He became aware of its vitality, its beauty and its warmth.   And the young boy gazed in awe and wondered.

He loved the countryside and the old cottage where he lived with his kindly parents and he looked forward to the walks and picnics they took together.   But here was a new experience.   For the first time in his young life, Simon was away from home and alone.   The great hill and reared itself between him and the little cottage cutting off all visual contact with things familiar.   Suddenly, it was as if the countryside belonged to him, it became as intimate and close as his own loving parents.   As he gazed above with half closed eyes, the blue sky poured down its warmth upon him; the mild breeze lifted his fair hair and tickled his forehead and the Red Admiral butterfly danced for him and him alone.   This was indeed his land.   He rolled over and hugged the earth close to him, clutching handfuls of dried leaves.   Tomorrow he would discover a new land beyond the shoulder of the downs and perhaps one day he would even reach that distant ring of trees.   But not now, for there was a touch of urgency in the falling leaves and the echo of a gull circling far out above the sea, filtered through the wind to tell him it was time he was on his way.   So, with a twig of deep red leaves for his mother’s vase clasped tightly in his small fist, the boy arose and turned once more to the hill.

How sad thought I, is the cry of a gull, or was it merely the mood I was in that made it appear so, for echoes of the past, no matter how happy, are always tinted with sadness.   Following the young explorer I thought up these few lines:

                Hark to the seagull’s urgent cry
                Which faster leaps than body flies,
                Leaps from the soul, bounds o’er the tree –
                Crowned beasts alone above the sea.
                Then down upon the ewe-cropped sward,
                Through rabbit’s hollow, shaded run,
                Along the white and winding track
                And up once more into the sun.
                And on the salty wind that sighs,
                The fading cry looks o’er the sea
                To see its birthplace glistening white
                And wheeling, circling, ever free.

 

read the collected work as it is published: here

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

air & blue & eyes & green & sky wormhole: weight of high sash windows – poewieview #33
autumn wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] by Mark L. Redford – autumn
beauty wormhole: Doctor Strange II – … things are the same again
branches & leaves wormhole: Is There / Life on Mars? – poewieview #32
breeze & clouds & horizon & trees wormhole: carpet worn / to the backing – poewieview #30
brown & space wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] by Mark L. Redford – moment
child wormhole: The Boats of Vallesneria by Michael J. Redford – Autumn Thoughts
echo & field & thought wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] by Mark L. Redford – from arm to nature, doing nothing
hedge & morning wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – Olly
life wormhole: even / a second
orange wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] by Mark L. Redford – the soft canticle of the gourds:
red & walking wormhole: my seat // now
sea wormhole: Le Pont des Arts, 1907
seagull wormhole: the missing chord // the now-silent seagull
sun wormhole: trellis / and wisteria – poewieview #29
white wormhole: ‘hope for things to come’
wind wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – A Precious Moment
windows wormhole: magnetic field
yellow wormhole: Doctor Strange III – the needs of billions

 

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… Mark; remember …

"... the impulse to keep to yourself what you have learned is not only shameful; it is destructive. Anything you do not give freely and abundantly becomes lost to you. You open your safe to find ashes." ~ Annie Dillard

pages coagulating like yogurt

  • Bodhisattvacharyavatara
    • Chapter 1
    • Chapter 10
    • Chapter 2
    • Chapter 3
    • Chapter 4
    • Chapter 5
    • Chapter 6
    • Chapter 7
    • Chapter 8
    • Chapter 9
    • Introduction
  • collected works
    • 25th August 1981 – count Up
    • askance From Hell
    • Batman
    • Bob 1995-2012
    • David Bowie Movements in Suite Major
    • Edward Hopper: Poems at an Exhibition
    • Eglinton Hill
    • FLOORBOARDS
    • Granada
    • in and out / the Avebury stones / can’t seem to get / a signal …
    • Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters]
    • Miller’s Batman
    • mum
    • nan
    • Portsmouth – Southsea
    • Spring Warwick breezes / over Bacharach fieldwork and boroughs with / the occasional shift and chirp of David / in the pastel-long morning of the sixties
    • The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford
    • through the crash
  • index
    • #A-E see!
    • F–K, wha’ th’
    • L-P 33 1/3 rpm
    • Q-T pie
    • U-Z together forever
  • me
  • others
  • poemics
  • poeviews
  • teaching matters
  • William Carlos Williams
  • wormholes

recent leaks …

  • “…and may the great elements…”
  • paisley // implicitly
  • this pocketed being
  • the inevitable tock // when we close our eyes
  • time
  • the simple prayer // the tattered poem // the bitter lament
  • taking birth
  • mirror
  • long / road
  • ‘in my car I pass…’

Uncanny Tops

  • me
  • Moebius strip
  • YOUNG WOMAN AT A WINDOW by William Carlos Williams
  • 'in my car I pass...'
  • 'the practice ...'
  • 'I can write ...'
  • like butterflies on / buddleia
  • meanwhile
  • 'hello old friend ...'
  • under the blue and blue sky

category sky

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